


Crystal and Ice

by MissDelight



Series: Therion [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action, Adventure, Assassains, Epic, Fire and Potions sequel, Gen, Humor, M/M, Magic, Psijic Order, Romance, Snark, Spies & Secret Agents, Thalmor, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDelight/pseuds/MissDelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Therion, Farengar, Ondolemar, Talamagne, and many more return in the sequel to Fire and Potions.  A mysterious, new threat looms on the horizon, threatening the Summerset Isles and the rest of Tamriel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daal

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read Fire and Potions, you can find it [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2146146/chapters/4688835%0A).  
> This is the second work in the series and contains massive spoilers to Fire and Potions.  
> Thank you, please enjoy.

    _Ondolemar,_

_The room is being scryed - you’re being watched._

_Meet me on the southern balcony._

_Oh, and smile as if I’ve written something quite clever._

_That should make them mad with curiosity as to what you’re reading._

_-Therion_

    Smirking, Ondolemar folded the note between his gloved fingers.  Pinching it between thumb and forefinger, he reached out, faintly brushing the parchment with his magicka.  The corners crinkled under the red glow of fire, turning black and crumpling, until only ash remained.

    Brushing the soot from his hands over the waste basket, he hummed softly while making himself comfortable after a long day of work, casually moving through his suite as though nothing were amiss.  Taking his time, he poured himself a drink, retrieved the stack of messages waiting for him on the entry table, and sank down into one of the room’s leather arm chairs.  The suite was pleasant and luxurious, decorated with refined art, and its large windows revealed a breath-taking view of the capital palace.  Of all the amenities, however, the room’s cooling enchantment was his favorite, coming as a welcome relief after his day.  

Alinor’s sweltering, crystal throne room was an awe-inspiring sight to behold, but far from comfortable.  Especially at midday, as it captured the sun’s rays.

Peeling off his robes, he sighed fondly at the sensation of the cool air washing over him.  He stretched lazily, letting his back slowly pop, before undoing his pants and shrugging them off.  Though his face remained neutral, he felt a sense of mischievous satisfaction, as he wondered if the individual spying on him was embarrassed by his nudity.  

Stepping into the shower, he used his magicka to fill the overhead basin with ice, before channeling a long gout of flame over it.  As he released the warm water over his head and cleaned himself, he found that it still felt like a novelty despite having been back in Alinor for nearly six months.  After the years he had spent in Skyrim, the simple luxury never ceased to amaze him.

    After a quick shower, he dressed in loose slacks, hung his towel around his neck, and went outside to stand on the balcony.  Leaning on the railing, he stared out at the dramatic sight of the capital city of Alinor.  The crystalline spires of countless buildings older than memory stretched into the sky, shimmering with a hypnotic beauty around the stunning view of the palace.

    “You finally decided to join me.  I was beginning to wonder,” chuckled a familiar voice from behind and overhead.  “It’s safe, by the way.  They can’t see out here.”

    Ondolemar turned around, laying eyes on the dark figure lying casually on the rooftop above his balcony.  With an agile motion, he leapt up on the handrail and jumped up to grasp the edge of the roof.  Muscles flexing beneath his gold skin, he pulled himself up in one smooth motion.

    “I didn’t want to rush outside.  It might have seemed suspicious,” Ondolemar said, sitting beside his visitor.  “I certainly wasn't trying to reprimand you for coming all the way here.  Despite giving me your word that you were taking the week off,” he added pointedly, suggesting he had slowly made his way outside for that exact reason.

    His companion merely chuckled.

    “A whole week?  And you believed me?” the mer asked, removing his black hood and mask to give him a galling smile.  “That’s your own fault.”

    “It’s been _one day_ , Therion,” Ondolemar chided with a tight lipped frown.

    “Yes, and there’s trouble already,” Therion said enthusiastically, sitting up.  “Imagine if I had taken two days off?”

    Ondolemar opened his mouth to argue, but Therion continued, cutting him off.

    “Talamagne sent me.  Well, sort of,” he corrected, seeing Ondolemar’s disdain.  “Protested loudly, then deeply regretted mentioning it would be more accurate.  However, someone needed to let you know you were being watched, and ironically, he could not, because he was scrying someone else.”

    Ondolemar sighed in irritation.

    “What about Aran?  He was supposed to be my contact.”

    “Stalking out a group of Thalmor extremists,” Therion said brightly, happy to catch him up on events.  “Since you left they’ve entered a particularly nasty phase in their struggle to determine who will succeed Radac.  It’s been getting bloody.  With any hope they'll tear themselves apart before reaching a decision.  Alas, we’re rarely that lucky.  Aran’s keeping a close eye on them, using every available agent of the _Laloria Malatar_.”

    Ondolemar drummed his fingers thoughtfully.

    “No rest for the wicked,” he said, shaking his head.  “On that note, has Talamagne made any progress in the palace?”

    “No... nothing new,” Therion said, trailing off in a daze as the sun began to sink over the horizon.  The whole of Alinor shone with an ethereal glow as the sun's rays reflected the crystal palace and surrounding capital buildings.

Ondolemar observed his cousin's gaze, watching him drink in his surroundings with an intense expression.  Since his return from exile, Therion often looked preoccupied.  Leaving Ondolemar to wonder what engrossed him so in those moments.  Perhaps his concern was unwarranted, and it was exactly as Therion often assured him; a thirst for sights he had gone without for so long.

Shaking himself, Therion turned away from the view, swiftly resuming their conversation.

“Talamagne is discreetly watching as many of the princes as he can.  Support is still strongest for Prince Corrick, but that really isn't saying much. They all have designs on taking the throne; every prince and princess wants to be the next Arcane Arch-Magister.”

Ondolemar made a soft 'hmph'.

    “The Thalmor aren’t the only ones tearing themselves apart with in-fighting.  If this power struggle goes on much longer, Alinor will be at risk of destabilizing.  Leaving the country open to assault.  To that end, how is your errand coming?”

    “Investors, bankers, and all variety of venture capitalists will arrive by the end of the week," Therion said with an eager grin, rubbing his hands together.  "Prince Corrick will receive credit for the steady stream of coin pouring in from foreign hands.  Cyrodiil and Skyrim are eager to trade, now that our doors are open, and it should give Corrick the edge he needs.  Money talks.”

    “Excellent," Ondolemar said, clapping his hands together with an edge of finality.  "Well, now that you’ve delivered Talamagne’s message and gotten me up to speed, you can go back on your vacation until they arrive.”

Therion scoffed at his dismissal.

“Certainly,” he replied with a patronizing smile.  “I’ll relax for a whole week, cousin.  On my honor," he added for good measure.  

Therion swearing on his honor meant many things.  More often than not the exact opposite of his oath.

    “Divines,” Ondolemar grumbled, giving him a sour look. “When will Farengar return?  You're insufferable without him.  Even for you."

    Therion let out a long, drawn out sigh.

    “Two weeks.  I’m bored beyond belief.”

    “It had not escaped my notice," Ondolemar quipped, causing Therion to grin at his half-serious grumbling.  Deciding that convincing Therion to go home was impossible, or at least not worth the effort, he sat back, making himself comfortable.

In truth, he enjoyed the brief respite from his deep cover, as well as Therion's company.  There was something rare and precious in watching Alinor together from the rooftops.  

After the harrowing night of their failed revolution he had believed these moments gone forever.  For a moment, the peaceful sunset before him was gone, replaced with an altogether different view of the crystal palace of six years ago.  Great plumes of black smoke blotted out the red sun to a faint glow.  Blood seeped from his brow, stinging his eyes and blurring his vision, while horrid anxiety gnawed in his stomach like a wound.  Broken and defeated, Talamagne by his side, the two frantically scanned the battle raging in the streets, searching for Aran.  The palace loomed before them, reminding him of the last moment he had seen Therion before they had been forced to retreat.  The thought of the throne room doors shutting before his eyes, sealing them safely on one side, while leaving Therion on the other, made him want to scream in blind rage.

Blinking, Ondolemar cut the memory off, forcing himself back to the present.  He was once again staring at the peaceful spring evening, although his vision had been so vivid he swore he could still faintly smell fire and ash, and feel that old uneasiness clawing in his gut.

Therion quirked his brow in silent question, sensing something in his pause.

"I was just thinking the absence of Skyrim's ambassador has caused a surprising stir in our small circle," Ondolemar said smoothly.  It was a pleasant night.  Speaking of the past was a somber affair, better left to quiet nights after several bottles of mead.  Though that night in particular was one which Therion was never willing to discuss for long or in much detail.  "Talamagne in particular is bursting with excitement that the good ambassador quickly conclude his business in Skyrim," Ondolemar said, shaking off the dismal aura of his memories with more cheerful thoughts.  "I've never seen anyone share Talamagne's boundless enthusiasm for experiments both great and small.  He’s thrilled for his return so they may begin their research into getting high on mushrooms.”

    “Yes, they really enjoy their experi- _what?_ ” Therion asked, looking at Ondolemar in disbelief tinged with curiosity.  He groaned as Ondolemar smirked.  “You almost had me.  I’ll bite, what are they actually doing?”

    “They've been trading notes on various projects by mail while Farengar's been in Skyrim, and apparently they made a breakthrough.  Remember when you and Farengar brought over the Trama Root he bought from that Morrowind refugee?" Ondolemar asked, chuckling to himself.  "I honestly think that moment of shared excitement transformed them from casual friends to blood brothers; Talamagne was positively giddy for the tiny, living sample.  He talked of nothing else for a week.  Well, they think they’ve found a local species of mushroom capable of extracting the levitation trait from the Trama Root, thus breeding an entirely new species-”

“Of levitating fungus,” Therion finished, cocking a brow.  “Impressive.  Levitating reagents have been all but extinct for the last two hundred years, since the eruption of the Red Mountain.  An event a _young_ and handsome mer like myself cannot personally remember, of course.  Unlike some-” Therion began, but was interrupted as Ondolemar whipped his towel from around his neck at him with a loud _crack_ , causing his cousin to roll out of the way, snickering as he did so.

    “Go home already, so that I may take out my false teeth.  Mer my age need their rest,” Ondolemar snapped cynically, realizing Therion’s taunt about his age was no coincidence.  Draping his towel once more around his neck, he added dispassionately, “Who remembered my birthday?”

    “I promised not to reveal-” Therion began.

    “I’m going to kill Aran,” Ondolemar said with calm certainty.

“I’m just glad you’re as excited for your four hundredth birthday as I am,” Therion said, face carefully masked with good cheer, leaving Ondolemar to wonder if he had guessed correctly about Aran.

"If you want to give me a gift, then do me a favor and go home, relax, and perhaps try staying out of trouble for awhile," Ondolemar said.  Frowning, he looked closer to at his face, finding dark circles around his cousin's Amber eyes.  "You look exhausted."

Therion absently ran a hand back through his short, gold hair.

"You know, it's a strange thing, but I've never been very good with sleep.  Oddly, next to Farengar, it's easy," Therion said thoughtfully, with a stifled yawn.  "I doubt I've had a decent night's rest since he went back to Skyrim.  Although," Therion continued, shaking his head, "when he is here, getting him to stay in bed can be nearly impossible.  He's always thinking of something in the middle of the night and racing off to his desk.  I can't explain it, but I know when he's not there.  Even in a deep sleep.  If he steals himself out of bed to work on research, I toss and turn all night.  Thankfully, we seemed to reach a compromise just before he left.  He keeps a journal by the bed and scrawls his notes there.  At first he simply didn't believe me, but I honestly don't care about the light spell, just so long as he's there."

Ondolemar shook his head, looking impressed despite himself.

"What?" Therion asked, raising a curious brow.

"You and Farengar," Ondolemar said, drumming his fingers in his usual habit.  "I'm just glad that you met him.  For a time, after Radac..." Ondolemar began, his eyes flashing dark and dangerous as he spoke the name.  "You were very different.  I thought you might never smile sincerely again.  And then you found Farengar. I never told you how shocked I was to find you were once again yourself when we met in Skyrim.  The way he affects you, it's easy to see he means the world to you."

Therion smiled a little, before sighing.

"Not easy for everyone, apparently," he muttered.

    "Oh?" Ondolemar asked doubtfully.  "Does he not know?"

    "Oh, he knows quite well how I feel," Therion said, rubbing his tired eyes.  "It's more that he doesn't fully accept it.  And sometimes when I look at him, I can tell, he's thinking..." he paused, sighing again.  "He's thinking that he's just enjoying it while it lasts.  That my affection is temporary."

    Ondolemar nodded his understanding.  Relationships between mer and men were notorious for being short-lived due to the difficulty of their difference in life spans.  And from what he had gleaned talking to Talamagne and Therion (the wizard himself looked on him with distrust and spared him few words), Farengar had already been jilted by a mer before.  A young Dunmer sorceress who had broken off their engagement.

    "He's a stubborn individual, to say the least," Ondolemar said, thoughtfully drumming his fingers as he considered the Nord wizard.  "I can empathize with the frustration of not being able to convince someone that you care. You know first hand how dry my personality is, when I'm not pushing myself to act for others."

    "At least Talamagne has you figured out.  Clever mer that he is.  It would take a genius to do it," Therion said with a friendly chuckle.  Shaking his head, he added, "I just wish Farengar understood how much I care."

"If your goal is to convince him you want to spend your lives together, could you get the point across by proposing marriage?"

    Therion groaned, covering his face with his palm.

    "Unfortunately, no.  Ironically, asking him to wed would have the exact opposite effect.  I'm rather certain he would take it as impetuous and reaching on my part.  Grand displays of affection just further make him believe I'm trying to convince myself, not him, that I want to be together despite the fact that he'll age before I do.  No, I need to do something understated, to get him to realize how much he means to me."

    "Ah," Ondolemar said with roguish grin.  "You mean like becoming a god in a fit of insanity, to bring him back from the dead?"

"Yes, something like that," Therion agreed with a laugh.  "Understated."

    A knock from within Ondolemar's suite reached their ears.

"Sir?  Are you there, Weapons Master?" called a voice from within.

"Ah, that would be my cue to leave it would seem," Therion said, rolling to his feet.

"And mine to get back to work.  Be safe, cousin," Ondolemar said, sharing a quick embrace with Therion before descending down to his balcony.

"You as well," Therion said fondly, before pulling his mask back and disappearing out of sight.

 

* * *

  
  
    Therion sprinted across the rooftops, eagerly leaping from one to the next, flipping and twirling through the air.  The night felt free and limitless, the whole of Alinor spread out before him.  As he ran, his thoughts melted away, routine taking over and leaving him relaxed.  His feet knew the way home by heart, every familiar groove a part of him.  

By the time he had reached home, he was finally beginning to feel tired as he had hoped he would.  Yawning, he collected the mail left by courier at the gate and walked up to his large, empty manor.

As soon as he touched the ornate, steel door handle, he heard the lock open with a faint click.  Skyrim had been wonderful in many ways but he had sorely missed the conveniences of home.  Having to use a key to enter your own house had been a nuisance.  

Once inside the dark entryway, he smiled to himself.  If there was one enchantment he had missed most of all, it was perhaps the simplest.

With a snap of his fingers, a shower of sparks burst around his hand in halo, bathing him in their warm, red glow.  Instead of fading, the tiny embers flared brighter as they fell, before leaping up and flying toward the ceiling.  They soared across the sconces over head, before shooting forth the catching every lamp and candle down the hall and up the stairs.  

All at once the manor was filled with bright, cheerfully burning firelight.  

Sorting through the mail, Therion kicked off his boots and walked toward the kitchen.  Only a package and a letter from the College of Winterhold caught his interest.  Curious, he produced a concealed dagger from his cuff, before tearing into the paper and twine around the box.

And that was when he tripped.

His first thought was relief that he hadn’t slashed his other hand holding the package with his blade- reflexively spinning the handle around into a safe grasp, as he stumbled.

Regaining his footing, he tiredly shook his head before swiftly returning his dagger to its hiding place.  Ondolemar had been right, he sighed to himself as he rubbed his eyes; he was exhausted.

In the kitchen he set the mail down and tossed the paper and twine in the trash.  As he moved to open the package from the college, he was struck with extreme dizziness and fatigue.  Wincing, he clutched the countertop for balance.  His legs gave out, making him falter, and finally collapse on the smooth, stone floor as his grasp on the counter failed.

The sound of footsteps alerted him that he was not alone.  Blearily, he watched two mer appear from the dining room, the site of their attire sending a fresh chill up his spine.  Black and gold robes swept across his kitchen with a faint flutter, making his pulse race faster with each step the two took with their leather boots.  It was like a scene from any of a number of his nightmares.  

The Thalmor had found him.

"Finally," drawled one with long white hair, drawing a sword.  "I thought he'd never come home."

Therion forced his bone tired body to respond and began to slowly crawl, inching his way toward the cabinets beside him.

The white-haired mer took a step toward him but was stopped by his companion.  A mer of perfect contrast to him with short, dark hair.  She produced a crossbow, looking disdainfully at the sword he held.

"It's better if you don't get too close, Melmar," she chided.  "This is the mighty Dragonborn," she added haughtily, looking down at Therion’s pitiful struggles.

Melmar shrugged off his comrade’s arm.

"Hm," he said looking down on Therion.  "Doesn't seem like much without his 'shouts'."

Searching desperately for his thu'um, Therion found what they said to be true.  His Dragonborn powers were beyond his reach.  With a sinking realization, Therion spied a thin, blue trail of energy stretching out from himself and leading back to the package from Winterhold.

Gritting his teeth, he continued his crawl, growling something beneath his breath as he reached out and quietly opened one of the cabinets neither of them could see from where they stood.

"What did you say?" Melmar jeered, while his companion aimed her bow at Therion with deadly intent.

"I said,” Therion gasped, trying to fight the tide threatening to envelope his senses.  “I don't need my voice to kill you."

Melmar shouted as an arrow sprouted from his chest.  The white-haired mer stared in surprise at Therion and the small, pre-loaded crossbow in his hand before he collapsed, spasming on the floor.

Therion inwardly cursed.  He had been aiming for the mer holding the crossbow.

Holding his right hand protectively in front of himself, he tried to pour his remaining strength into his magicka.  His vision grew dark as his body reeled from the strain, but he managed to raise a ward spell, the barrier springing to life at the exact moment the Thalmor fired her crossbow.  He watched the bolt speed toward him, and hit the clear shield exactly in front of his heart.  The bolt deflected from its original course, it found a new destination, piercing deep within his shoulder instead.

The impact caused Therion to drop his bow and protective ward as he shouted and grabbed hold of his left shoulder.  It felt on fire, inflamed by his every movement.  Training took over as he ignored the pain, focusing on the target across the room, who was quickly re-arming her crossbow.  Drawing a deep breath, Therion braced himself against what he had to do next.  

Clapping his hands together as hard as he could, he screamed in agony.

A wave lept from his hands, extinguishing every flame simultaneously, and engulfing his home in darkness.

The absence of light was interrupted as a soft glow shone in the darkness, the Thalmor agent’s hand illuminated by her arming a sparks spell in one hand and candlelight in the other.  She snapped her eyes toward what sounded like breaking glass just as she summoned a light spell over her head with a _crack_.

White light flaring to life, she observed what appeared to be crystalline shards of a container on the floor covered in strange writings.  She had barely craned her head to the side in curiosity, when she heard a sudden growl from behind her, making her spin around in a flash.  Too late to react, she stared into the demonic black eyes of a daedric hellhound, leaping down in a blur of sinister teeth and claws that seemed too numerous for any sane, living creature to possess.

The Thalmor agent’s screams ended before her light spell did, leaving Therion alone but thankfully not in the dark.  He was grateful for the light, since he had no strength to cast one of his own, and while he was counting his blessings, he was also feeling good about the summoning jar he’d had the foresight to purchase.  The hellhound had been quick and effective, leaving a pile of ash behind in its wake.

The blue stream between himself and the package was either brighter in the dim light or growing in intensity, he wasn’t sure which.  More disconcertingly, it was acting erratically, flaring up at odd intervals with a crackle of electricity, and sending a horrible jolt through him when it did.

Reaching up, Therion grabbed hold of the counter and pulled himself up with his right arm as quickly as he could, grimacing as he rose.  His left shoulder seemed to be bleeding more than normal for the type of wound, making him suspect his enemies had prudently applied a blood thinner to ensure he bled out.  Poison would have been a better choice, as he had proven, but then, Thalmor did love slow and painful deaths.

Leaning on the counter he drew himself toward the package.  The closer he came, the worse he felt, making it hard to focus.  Consciousness slipping in and out, left shoulder in agony, he reached for the box, willing himself to take hold of it and throw it away.  He doubted he could throw far, or at all, but it seemed to be his only chance.  Hands shaking he brushed the top of the box with his hand before his eyes slid shut and he lost awareness and slumped over.  Limply, he slid from the counter, his arm knocking the box as he fell and causing it to tumble toward the floor with him.  As it was upended, the lid parted from the package, causing the contents - tiny, blue crystals - to shower out across the polished stone floor, bouncing and scattering around Therion as he met the ground.

The broken and uneven shards of the ancient crystal, _Silgahrot_ , crackled with erratic electricity, its fragments humming and pulsing with light, making it the sole illumination in the room as the candlelight over the dead Thalmor finally extinguished.

Therion made a half conscious groan as a windy gale met his ears; the same wind which greeted him when he stole the soul of a dragon.  For a time he was lucid, staring at the light of his soul drifting into the fragmented crystal in a radiant cyclone.

Then his pain began to come and go as he felt strangely and horribly detached from his body.  The new, wrenching sensation was just as distressing as his physical suffering.

The bizarre moment ended swiftly as both his physical suffering and normal perspective of the floor returned, with his pulse racing increasingly faster while a bone chilling cold crept over him.  Shivering violently, he cursed the ice filling his veins in place of the warm blood seeping from his shoulder.

Eyes sliding closed, he sighed to himself.

Death, or losing his soul to the crystal, he mused faintly.  

He wondered which would come first.

Dimly, he realized someone was talking but the words were faint.  He wondered if he had imagined the voice when it spoke again.

_You can't die.  That would be most inconvenient._

The howl of the wind, whipping his gold hair across his cheek, was suddenly still, leaving behind a hollow silence.  He felt the icy chill and stabbing pain of his wounds drift away as his mind went blank. **  
**


	2. Nisaad Vokriind

    Skyrim’s ambassador sat at the back of the ship on a bollard, his arms folded and eyes closed in concentration.  Sounds of merriment drifted up from below deck as a door opened and closed midship, but he paid it no mind.  The company of drunken sailors and travelers, or sober ones for that matter, were of no interest to him.

    A hand on his shoulder caused his eyes to snap open and magicka to falter, making the powerful gale filling the sails die down to a quiet breeze.

    “Master Farengar!” exclaimed an elderly voice with delight.

    Farengar’s glare of contempt at the interruption was transformed into a look of pleasant surprise as he recognized the old Nord beaming down at him.

    “Professor Tolfdir!” he exclaimed with a friendly laugh, eagerly shaking the Master Wizard’s hand.

“Ah, so you do remember me,” Tolfdir said with a gentle smile.  “I’m very pleased.”

“I would not so easily forget my Alteration professor, nor the first fellow Nord practitioner of the higher art I ever had the pleasure of meeting,” Farengar said, feeling a rush of excitement at seeing his old mentor.  “Divines!  How is it I have not seen you until now?  We’ve been sailing for weeks!”

“I rarely come topside,” Tolfdir replied, quietly smacked his lips in contemplation and leaning back against the handrail.  “I’ve been searching below deck, as I seem to have misplaced my alembic…” he mumbled absently to himself.  

Farengar waited patiently, used to the old professor’s wandering mind.  

After a moment his attention returned.  “And you have been making yourself scarce, it would seem,” Tolfdir said, looking meaningfully up at the ship’s sails, slackened without Farengar’s attention.  “The assumption among the crew is that we’ve been making remarkable time due to a sighting of dolphins.  Though others feel our good fortune is owed to the navigator’s new lucky cricket,” Tolfdir said with a soft chuckle, the skin around his eyes crinkling with mirth.

Farengar snorted.

“And what have they said about the strange wizard in blue robes lurking around at night?” he asked with a scowl.

“Ah, yes.  There’s been some talk of that.  The sailors think you're a bad omen, of course,” Tolfdir said wryly.  “They believe it would be prudent to throw you overboard.  One keen individual recommended they keelhaul you, suggesting it could cure you of your ‘magic’.  If they caught you casting spells out here, they just might try it you know.”

Farengar folded his arms.

“Have I ever mentioned how grateful I am to you, for teaching me waterbreathing?” he asked, as if to say the crew were more than welcome to try.

The old wizard took a seat beside Farengar on the other steel bollard.  

Farengar thought he saw a look of approval in the elderly Nord’s eyes.

“You seem quite eager to return to the Summerset Isles, ambassador,” Tolfdir said, stroking his beard.

Farengar watched curiously as Tolfdir leaned back, closing his eyes.  Pale blue light gathered into the old wizard’s hands, his bony fingers smoothly gesturing.  The ambassador felt a cool breeze touch his cheek just before the wind rose into a howl, nearly whipping the hood from his head.

“How fortunate!” Tolfdir said over the loudly billowing sails.  “I think I saw another group of dolphins along the starboard side.  Perhaps we’ll surprise everyone by reaching the Isles tonight.”

Farengar sat back, mirroring his posture.  Reaching out, he smiled beneath his hood as he drew upon his magicka, adding his strength to his old professor’s and making the sails swell.

“You know the Isles well, ambassador,” he heard Tolfdir say.  “I am eager to find Archmage Therion Adamonest.  Would you happen to know where he resides?”

Farengar frowned at the question.  

Where Therion was concerned, no news was usually good news.

“Yes, I know it well,” Farengar replied.  “If it’s not too forward, may I ask what your business is with Whiterun’s thane?”

“College business,” Tolfdir said dismissively, politely dodging his question.  “I thought it best to discuss things in person, you see.  And it gave me the opportunity to see the once forbidden continent with my own eyes.  Although, while I’m here,” the High Wizard added to himself in an apprehensive murmur.  “I should also like to tell the Archmage something has been stolen…”

 

* * *

 

 

The ship docked just before dawn, with many praises given to dolphins and the navigator’s lucky cricket, while Farengar discretely cast an invisibility spell and walked down the gangplank even as it was still being set-up.

Farengar tried to put the ominous encounter with his old master out of his mind and focus instead on the final leg of his journey.  Drawing his blue hood low and hiding his hands in his pockets, he ducked down a small, dark road, avoiding the brightly illuminated Main Street.  There were always at least a few stragglers roaming there, even at ungodly hours like these that fell somewhere between late and early.

Alinor city, he considered, while keeping to the shadows as much as possible, was a stunningly clean, safe place to live, and its crime rate almost non-existent.

For High Elves.

For humans, beast races, or even other races of elves, the statistic was drastically  different.

The Summerset Isles were undergoing a rapid transformation- one that its inhabitants were still coming to grips with.

Six months ago the sudden death of Radac, the tyrannical leader of the Summerset Isles and the “Ascendant” head of the Thalmor, set off a chain reaction of events, including foreigners and exiles popping up throughout the land.  With their Ascendant dead, the last of the radical elven supremacists, the Thalmor, were left licking their wounds somewhere in the shadows.  Making traveling alone as a foreigner in the current climate, to put it lightly, ill-advised.

A fact which did not escape Skyrim’s ambassador as he cut through an enchanting park filled with glowing vines, heading toward the west end of town, with his pale complexion hidden from view.

Wandering the streets of Alinor without a High Elven escort was something he would never recommend to other foreigners.  Although it was hypocritical, he would think anyone else trying it extremely foolish.  Perhaps it was his pride, he mused, but he was completely confident he could avoid trouble.

Farengar had perfected moving around the city to an artform.  He knew which routes to take and which to avoid, what times to go, and if he was very careful about hiding his skin, he could convince others he was a very short native through a bit of cunning and clever use of the high elven language, _Altmeris_.

Therion, it turned out, was a far better tutor in his native tongue than in _Dovahzul_ , the language of dragons.  And although the elf would be appalled to know of Farengar’s secret walks through town, Farengar himself considered it practical research.

Though if he was being perfectly honest with himself, more than anything he found the idea of being escorted loathsome.

He had grown up in Skyrim.  Well-known for harsh cold, producing the hardiest warriors on Nirn, and a distrust of magic so profound it bordered on the fanatical.  No one had provided an escort for him there.

The twin moons were fading from view and the sun was slowly cresting the horizon when he finally laid eyes on the large estate surrounded by _Molagleyes_ trees.  Burning red leaves, fueled by magicka, wreathed the house in a beautiful hearth-like glow.

There was an indefinable quality to Therion’s house which brought him tranquility.  From the moment he had laid eyes on it, he understood the painful, homesick look Therion had worn in Skyrim.  

The house was spacious and grand, but felt comfortable and inviting; not extravagant and garish like other High Elven estates.  The selection of tomes, scrolls, and books throughout the rooms ranged from every subject, all of them tenderly cared for and lovingly organized.  Farengar couldn’t help but feel a tinge of envy every time he buried himself in a new book; it was the type of collection he could imagine amassing, if he were likewise 134 years old.  He had never thought of a human’s lifespan as being limited, until he had looked upon the accomplishments of Altmer.  The country was filled with majestic art, stunning magical research, and detailed craftsmanship perfected over several hundred years.  There were times he felt envious, like when he visited the country’s massive libraries that he would never live long enough to read through, but more than anything, he had never imagined there was so much knowledge to be gained, and Farengar reveled in the wonder of it all.

Slipping in the back gate, he let out a sigh of contentment, relieved to finally be home.

 _Home_.

The thought caught him off guard.

It was the first time he had referred to it as such, the word coming to his mind of its own accord.

Reflecting on it, he absently ran a hand across the familiar texture of the smooth, crystal trees as he walked through the gate and up the path to the house.  A wave of serenity began to wash over him, growing stronger the closer he came.

In opposition to the warm and pleasant glow of his thoughts, an agitated grumble rose from the back of his throat.  Despite his best efforts, pleasant nights like these filled him with unease.  Everything was too good, too perfect.  And if there had been one constant in his life, it was that his happiness was short-lived.

The kitchen was the closest entrance when coming from the docks, which suited him just fine.  He could use a little breakfast before slipping into bed.  The ship’s cook had seemed a relative of Orgnar from Riverwood, or at least from the same culinary background.  Which was to say, he enjoyed putting the ship’s skeever population to imaginative uses.

Turning his key in the lock, Farengar opened the kitchen door and nearly tripped over something.  Instead of looking down, his gaze was drawn straight ahead, transfixed by an intricate web of glowing, blue lines spread between crystals, twinkling and sparkling like stars.  Farengar might have found it beautiful, had he not recognized the web of light as Therion’s soul, being ripped from his body and torn in countless directions.  The elf was lying deathly still in a pool of blood, sprawled on his side with an arrow buried deep in his shoulder.

Farengar leapt over what he recognized was a dead Thalmor agent, and grabbed an open box from the floor.  He hadn’t seen the ancient weapon in months, but could recognize it anywhere.  Moving quickly, he began sweeping the glowing, crystal fragments of _Silgarot,_ the Soul Stealer, into the container.

It was difficult not to cast a restoration spell instead, looking at Therion’s blood on the floor, but he had to get the fractured artifact away from the Dragonborn as fast as possible or there would be nothing left for him to heal.  And casting a spell could be unwise.  Broken artifacts were dangerously unpredictable-

Before he could finish his thought, Farengar’s ears were deafened by a booming crash of thunder as his eyes were blinded by light.  When his senses returned, he found himself sliding down a wall 10 feet from where he had been.  Thrown across the room by the volatile, pent up energies of the broken _Silgarot_.

Stunned and unable to move, Farengar landed on the floor and sat watching the blue lines crackle and spark violently.  Heart pounding, he wondered what effect the sudden outburst was having on Therion.  The Dragonborn continued to lay motionless below the turbulent storm, his figure blasted by erratic surges as _Silgarot_ hungrily searched for his soul.  Farengar watched with surprise as the glowing shards pulsed, but to his relief they grew no brighter.  It appeared _Silgarot_ was unable to wrench the soul out of Therion; possibly due to being so badly damaged.  Which meant there was still a chance some or all of Therion’s soul was still inside of him.

A small part of his mind told him it was a futile hope.

If Therion’s soul had been torn in any way, no matter how small, there would be no mending it.  Watching the fractured shards flash erratically, he couldn’t imagine that it hadn’t damaged him in some way.

With grim determination, Farengar shrugged off the numbness of his limbs, and rose to his feet.

Clearing his mind, he willed himself to focus.  He had known the taste of the crystal’s power while it was still whole.  He had felt it draw across his flesh in searing flames just before shattering it into what it was now.  

Lowering one knee to the ground, he closed his eyes and gently reached out for the pent up energy within the fragmented artifact.  Familiar heat pricked across his skin in pins and needles as he let in a tiny amount of its power.

Channeling a broken artifact was a perilous endeavor.

And even when it was intact, _Silgarot_ was meant to be sustained by a group of mages, not one.  The last time he had dared wield it alone had been the moment before his death, when he had nothing left to lose.

Reclaiming the empty wooden box, he looked down at Therion lying unconscious on his side, pooled in blood.   _Silgarot_ was still trying to devour his soul, so he was alive.  Blood loss could be healed.  It looked severe, but he could recover within a week.

Damage to one’s soul, however…

He forced it out of his mind, trying not to wonder how long Therion had been this way before he arrived.

Closing his eyes, he squeezed the box tight, knuckles turning white as he slowly opened himself to the power of _Silgarot_.  The blistering power of a soul began to burn across his skin in hot, blue flames.  Farengar hoped it was the soul of a dragon and not Therion’s, that he was channeling.

There was no delicate way to remove _Silgarot_.

All he could do was be quick, and pray what he had in mind did not cause the broken relic to explode.

Opening himself completely to _Silgarot_ , Farengar threw his head back as he was surrounded with burning, blue, incandescent flames.  When his eyes snapped open, his irises were completely obscured with the brilliant glow of magicka.

With one hand he slammed the box to the ground, the contact creating a powerful _crack!_ fueled by magic.

All at once, every piece of _Silgarot_ shot across the floor, gathering itself into the box.  As he snapped the lid shut, the pieces were beginning to rumble.  With a powerful throw, he flung the package at the door while casting a spell in his other hand.  From a bright explosion of white magicka, a ghostly wolf leapt up, catching the package in its mouth mid-air, before agilely landing on the floor and sprinting out the door, bounding over the dead body of the Thalmor.

With baited breath Farengar watched the web of light hovering over Therion crackle violently once before fading into small particles of light, and vanishing completely.  Farengar wasted no time wrenching the arrow from the elf’s shoulder, before pouring all the healing magic he could muster into him.

Sweat forming on his brow, Farengar toiled, feeling sick dread building in his gut as Therion’s expression remained blank.

 

* * *

 

Groaning, Talamagne rolled over, drifting between sleep and consciousness.  Blearily, he looked around his room, slowly waking up.  The howling wolf from his dream lingered as his furniture came into focus.

Placing a hand over his face to block out the twin moons, he wondered what time it was.  A low, mournful howl punctuated with an insistent bark made him sit up.  When the sound began again, he tossed back his covers, racing to the window and throwing it open.

At the sight of the tall Altmer, the glowing familiar standing on his doorstep stopped mid-howl to stare up at him.  Plopping down on its ethereal haunches behind a package, the wolf waited, watching him with an expectant gaze.

Sighing, Talamagne pressed his palms against his forehead, trying to force himself to wake up completely.  He had been scrying almost nonstop for two days, leaving him exhausted and his mind sluggish.

_Wolf._

The word drifted around his thoughts, searching for something to connect with while he threw on a pair of slacks.

 _Nord_ , his brain finally offered back.

Sleepily turning the idea over in his mind, he donned a set of silver, embroidered robes, working mostly on instinct.

Farengar’s familiar, he decided, while quickly descending the stairs.

It was a common spell, mostly used by Nords and Bretons, but he doubted he knew anyone else in Alinor who would use it, least of all anyone that would have cause to wake him at this hour.  He felt a momentary flood of excitement that his long absent friend was back from Skyrim.  Talamagne’s enthusiasm was instantly crushed by his suspicion that if Farengar was waking him up with sorcery near dawn, it wasn’t for anything less than life and death.  And the mysterious package at his door was not likely to be souveniers.

The conjured wolf looked stoically up at him as he opened the front door and bent down, curiously picking up the box in front of its ghostly paws.  When Talamagne lifted the lid, the familiar disappeared, finding its task complete.

Going by the position of the moons, Talamagne was running on roughly two hours of sleep.  Despite this, the sight of the blue crystal fragments sliced through any remaining fog surrounding Talamagne’s mind.  Eyes wide, he quickly shut the box, stowed it safely beneath a false floor board, and began sprinting toward the west end of town.

By the time he found himself standing in front of the open door of Therion’s kitchen, he was puffing and out of breath.  The sun was rising behind him, casting a long rectangle of light and a silhouette of his figure across the floor.

Before entering, he cast a detect life spell, ensuring that the two dead Thalmor lying in front of him were in fact dead, and that no unpleasant or invisible surprises awaited him within.

There were only two sources of life in the house, both glowing a lightblue.

Walking with silent, lithe grace, he crossed the room, finding Farengar seated on the floor.  His blue robes were stained red, and his forehead was pressed tenderly against Therion’s brow.  The short elf was clutched in his arms, blood-soaked and unconscious.

As Talamagne crouched down beside them, Farengar lifted his head and spoke.

“He will not wake.”

The emptiness in his voice pierced Talamagne’s heart, causing the tall elf’s shoulders to slump.

“When I arrived, the Thalmor were already dead,” Farengar explained in the same hollow tone.  

 _Leave it to Therion to be surrounded by the dead bodies of his enemies,_ Talamagne thought wryly, proud but also saddened at any chance for vengeance evaporating.   _At least they didn’t get away.  Assuming there were only two of them._

“I don’t know how much damage _Silgarot_ did to his soul- how long he was like this before I got here,” Farengar continued in a matter-of-fact tone.  Talamagne imagined he had been considering every possibility in detail for some time.  “The most likely scenario is that at least some of the pieces each absorbed part of his soul.  In which case, there is nothing we can do.  The crystal is too volatile to use.  Reversing the process would be disastrous, the probability of permanent damage too high.  

“There is the slim chance that the crystal malfunctioned and his soul still resides within him, though torn and damaged.  However.”

“He will not wake,” Talamagne finished, echoing him.  What Farengar was omitting, was that even if he did wake up, he might wish he hadn’t, if his soul was tattered.  “Here,” he said, holding out his arms.  “Give him to me.”

He had no idea how long Farengar had been sitting there, but it had been long enough.  Reaching forward, he carefully took Therion from him, suspecting he wouldn’t willingly surrender him if he waited for permission.  Talamagne looked down at the pale face of the younger elf, as he carried him upstairs to his room, trying to keep a handle on his feelings.  He had seen Therion scrape his knee and twist his ankle as a child. Even over a hundred years later, no matter how old Therion got, he still thought of him as a young mer- staring up at him with reverent, loving amber eyes.

It was hard not to keep his mind blank, but his lack of sleep helped conceal his emotions.  Out of himself, Farengar, and Ondolemar, one of them needed to be strong for the other two.  

That position defaulted to him.

If Ondolemar were like this, he had no doubt in his mind that Farengar would be the one keeping him and Therion sane.

Setting Therion down, Talamagne first went to a dresser and handed Farengar clean robes which the wizard wordlessly accepted, changing into them and out of his blood-soaked clothing, before pulling a chair up beside the bed.  

Meanwhile, Talamagne removed Therion’s armor and cleaned away the dried blood from his pallid, gold skin using a damp cloth.  Despite his efforts to stay alert, he felt his head bob several times as he nearly fell asleep.

“I’m going to see Ondolemar,” he said as soon as he had tucked Therion into bed.  “I’ll be back soon.”

Farengar snorted, not bothering to conceal his dislike for Talamagne’s husband.

“You’re exhausted and he’s undercover,” Farengar said.

“Both true,” Talamagne confirmed, popping the cork on a green stamina potion from his pocket before draining it in one eager gulp.  “However, his cousin’s soul being forcibly ripped from his body and possibly torn in a hundred or so separate directions is the sort of thing he likes to be woken up and extracted for.”

Talamagne let out a deep sigh, thinking of how Ondolemar would take the news.

“Even if Therion does wake up from this,” Talamagne began solemnly.  “It won’t be without consequences.  If he were anyone other than the ‘Dragonborn’, I’d say it was hopeless.  No one normal could wake up from that.  But his soul doesn’t seem to play by the same rules.  I’m putting my hopes on that.”

It wasn’t a huge comfort, but then, he knew that Farengar preferred honesty to empty promises.

Squeezing Therion’s hand before he left, Talamagne gripped his friend’s shoulder before he turned and quickly departed.

 

* * *

 

Time moved slowly for Farengar.  Every second dragging by like it was the longest in his life.  He was incredibly alert, which was part of the problem, his mind was sharp and quick, searching for a solution to help Therion.  He had long ago replayed everything he knew about soul related injury from his impeccable memory.  After finding nothing which inspired hope, he had tried putting his mind to some kind of useful task instead to distract himself.  He needed to keep thinking.  Because he knew the moment he stopped, he was going to lose the tenuous grasp he had over himself and he wanted to prolong that moment as long as he could.

He considered going to the laboratory, where he usually spent the vast majority of his time, but it felt pointless.

So he sat beside Therion, quietly passing time, his mind working tirelessly, theorizing endless scenarios and solutions to Therion's condition.

Talamagne returned sometime later with Ondolemar, his friend quickly excusing himself to ‘take care of’ their dead Thalmor visitors downstairs.

The former Head Justicar proceeded to crouch on the other side of the bed, clasping Therion’s hand and cupping a hand behind the dark gold curls on his head.  After a few minutes, he too silently sank into an armchair.

As much as Farengar disliked and distrusted the man, he was grateful he didn’t try to make small talk, and left him alone to his thoughts.

Talamagne returned later, and doing his best to break up the grim mood surrounding them, he forced both men down stairs to eat a late breakfast.

It was a somber gathering at the dining room table.

Talamagne discussed setting up various arrangements for Therion, as Farengar felt his grasp on the conversation slip away.  Everything became completely surreal.  He wasn't listening to the conversation; he was watching it, like one watched a dream.

Farengar looked at Ondolemar.  The former Thalmor looked and sounded very much like he always did.  He said little, staring at nothing in particular with a neutral look upon his face.  It was off-putting to Farengar, how emotionless Therion’s cousin could be.

Finally, Ondolemar drummed his fingers once on the table before pushing his chair back and standing up.

“Where are you going?” Talamagne asked from where he was leaning against the window, though from his tone he seemed to already know the answer.

“To kill someone,” Ondolemar replied dispassionately.

Talamagne set his spoon down in his seashell mug, a customary Summerset Isle dish called a ‘teashell’, before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll go with you,” he groaned, standing up.  His tone was supportive.  From the way he spoke, he only sounded annoyed at being tired rather than anything else.  “There might be some Thalmor over in- _AURIEL, MAGNUS, STENDARR, MARA!!!_ ” he yelled abruptly, shouting half of the Aldmeri pantheon of Divines as he looked down the hall.  His teashell fell from his hand, shattering loudly on the ground as he grabbed his chest and sank back down to sit on the window sill.

“Talamagne, are you alright?!” Therion exclaimed with concern, before rushing into the dining room and into view for everyone else.

Farengar wordlessly stared up at him in shock.

“Just a heart attack, thanks,” Talamagne stammered in disbelief.  “Nothing serious.  Don’t mind me.”

Therion gave Talamagne a curious look before his eyes came to rest on Farengar.  

“ _YOU’RE BACK!!!_ ” Therion exclaimed at the top of his lungs, before joyfully closing the gap between them in a rush, and pulling the stunned mage from his seat.

Farengar felt himself gathered into a bone-crushing embrace, numbly wondering if he was having a psychotic break.  Then Therion kissed him deeply, and he decided if he had gone mad, it seemed like a better place than he had been the moment before.

After a minute Therion broke the kiss and beamed at him with pure happiness, his amber eyes shimmering.

“Ondolemar?” he asked abruptly in surprise, spying his cousin.  “What are you doing here?”  

Glancing around the room from one stunned expression to the next, Therion raised his eyebrows.  “I'm pleased to see each of you, but could someone tell me what I’m missing?” he finally asked, after a long and awkward silence.

A strangled sound escaped his throat as, quick as lightning, Ondolemar grabbed him in a tight embrace.

“Cousin,” Therion grunted.  “Are you hugging me or trying to kill me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Ondolemar snapped at him, pressing his face against the top of his head.

Perplexed, Therion hugged him back, while looking around for answers.

Farengar merely stood still, staring at him in a daze.

Talamagne quirked his brow, a small frown at the corner of his lips.

“Therion, your soul was ground into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle last night and I just finished scrubbing a distressing amount of your blood off of the kitchen floor,” Talamagne explained in confusion.  “Not to sound ungrateful, but how are you alright?”

Therion looked slightly taken aback.

“Hm, that does ring a bell, now that you mention it.  However, it’s...” Therion trailed off, sighing and ruffling his brow in deep concentration.  “Dark.  Like trying to remember a drunken night of Redwater Skooma the next morning.  I remember the two Thalmor waiting for me, getting shot in the shoulder, _Silgarot_ , and then… it's a complete blackout.”

Ondolemar released him and took a step back.

“Redwater Skooma,” he said flatly, in a tone suggesting he was trying to fathom a reason why anyone would imbibe the substance.

“Fun fact,” Therion offered, “it’s difficult to detect the abhorrent taste when you’re already drunk and someone has disguised the taste with juniper berries.  A little revenge by my friend J’zargo for accidentally turning him into a vampire.”

Ondolemar cocked his brow at how someone could ‘accidentally’ turn someone into a vampire, but Therion only sighed with a fond smile.

“Gods, I miss J’zargo,” Therion said.

“I think we’re getting off topic,” Talamagne ventured.  “Can you remember anything else about last night?”

Therion ran a hand back through his disheveled hair.

“I think I may have heard an ominous, disembodied voice talking to me at one point, if that helps.  Although, I might have been delirious from blood loss,” he said with a shrug.

“You say that so casually,” Talamagne said, a small laugh escaping him at the absurdity of it all.

Therion began ticking off a list on his fingers.

“I’ve met a talking dog, been to the Nord afterlife, read an Elder Scroll, and ridden dragons,” he said nonchalantly.  “To name a few of my exploits.  Hearing a disembodied voice may be the least unusual thing to happen to me this year.  And it wouldn't be the first time.  I wouldn't be surprised if it was one of the Aedra or Daedra.  They can be rather needy.  No offense,” he added, glancing up and then down.

“Fair enough,” Talamagne said slowly with a nod, sounding curious but too tired to ask further.  “I am very glad you’re alright,” he added, embracing Therion before cleaning up his destroyed teashell.  “I for one, need to sleep.  I’d like to stay here, if you don’t mind.  In case something else happens.”  

“You’re more than welcome,” Therion said.  “Thank you, for looking after me.  All of you,” he added, sounding deeply sincere as he looked at them each in turn.

“You know,” Talamagne said, his brow furrowed.  “I would have thought you’d be fatigued from all of that blood loss at the very least.”

Therion tilted his head in consideration.

“No, I can’t say that I am.  I feel perfectly fine.  Which, I’ll be the first to admit is very strange.”

Talamagne murmured something about various tests he wanted to run once he was more awake.  After kissing Ondolemar goodbye, the tall wizard finally waved them all ‘good night’, before dragging himself upstairs.

Ondolemar embraced his cousin farewell, sternly telling him to send word if anything happened.

As they were left alone together in silence Farengar remembered himself for the first time.  It felt like he had been out of his mind for a while, witnessing events as an outside observer.  Even now, he didn’t feel completely real.

“Farengar?” Therion asked, touching his cheek.

He stared down at the gold hand, at a complete loss because his mind was dead silent.

“Did I break you?” Therion teased with a tender smile.

Farengar felt like he was supposed to say something in response, but nothing came to mind.

Therion chuckled softly.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” he said, lightly combing his fingers through Farengar’s unkempt hair.  “Come here.”

Therion drew him close, showering him with reassuring touches.  Gold hands ghosted across his face and massaged his scalp.  Tightly embracing him, he gently kissed his face, running his calloused thumbs across his cheeks.  There was a content patience in every touch, as though Therion would gladly stand there all day.  

Farengar cleared his throat, gathering his wits together.  And then a thought occurred to him that sent chills down his spine.

“Shout,” Farengar said abruptly.

Therion tilted his head uncertainly.

“What?”

“Shout,” Farengar repeated, looking deadly serious.  “Use your _thu’um_.”

Therion didn't bother demanding an explanation, quickly doing as Farengar asked.

“ _STRUN BAH QO!_ ”

Therion’s words erupted like thunder, making a loud _crack!_ , reverberating around the room.  The sunlight in the windows dimmed and Farengar heard a small patter of raindrops hit the roof, quickly escalating into a heavy downpour.

Farengar gently touched Therion’s cheek, sea green eyes clouded with concern.

He let Therion hold him close, the elf wrapping his arms comfortably around his waist and kissing his neck.

“See?  I'm alright,” Therion said in a reassuring tone.  “The crystal didn't steal my _thu’um_.”

Therion couldn't see Farengar’s deep frown.  Keeping his suspicions to himself, Farengar said nothing, wrapping his arms around Therion.

 

* * *

 

 

Nerien sat on the large, warm, gray stones, watching his friend meditating above the pool of lilies.  Quaranir floated cross legged above the surface, a serene look on the Psijic’s face.  

There were rooms for each season at the monastery, but Quaranir seemed to find it most peaceful in the spring room, _Aldriel_.  Dragonflies buzzed between the flowers, petals fell from the trees, and a soft breeze drifted through the space, despite the room being enclosed.

Nerien sat up in fascination as he watched his friend’s eyes snap open, revealing golden orbs of light.  Quaranir was one of the few monks capable of looking through the pattern of time and seeing into the future.

Nerien jumped back in surprise as waves erupted from the pool, turning to solid ice before they could land on the ground.  He shivered as a layer of frost fell around them, covering the ground as the pond froze.  Quaranir continued to stare into things unknown to him, apparently unaware of what was happening.  He looked around uncertainly as snow began to fall and the warm, gentle breeze turned into a frigid gale of howling wind.

Watching the ice begin to grow with increasing speed, Nerien acted on reflex, teleporting to Quaranir and putting a shield spell around them both, protecting the oblivious, meditating monk just before the ice shattered in a loud explosion, raining shards of ice in a dangerous hail that bounced off of his ward. 

All at once the wind ceased, and Nerien saw Quaranir’s eyes had lost their glow, returning to their normal golden color.

“I must find the Dragonborn,” Quaranir said with determination, paying no mind to the frozen room.  He disappeared and reappeared at the shore, and Nerien dropped his ward and teleported after him.

“What did you see?” Nerien asked, shivering in the cold.

“The end of Nirn,” Quaranir replied calmly.


End file.
